


The Pitch Test

by banjjakbanjjak



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: 80s if you squint, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2020 (Simon Snow), F/M, Fluff, Meeting the Parents, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjjakbanjjak/pseuds/banjjakbanjjak
Summary: It’s a stupid tradition anyway, it’s not even a really a tradition so to speak, but it seemed that over the years, the hunting lodge has become the place for the entire family to judge prospective spouses. Grandma affectionately called it the “The Pitch Test” (which she herself went through, and apparently passed with flying colours).Merlin, where are you Malcolm?
Relationships: Malcolm Grimm & Fiona Pitch, Malcolm Grimm/Natasha Grimm-Pitch, Natasha Grimm-Pitch & Fiona Pitch
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	The Pitch Test

**NATASHA**

I am nervous.

I’m probably going to wear a hole into the wooden floors but I don’t care.

It’s a stupid tradition anyway, it’s not even a _really_ a tradition so to speak, but it seemed that over the years, the hunting lodge has become _the_ place for the entire family to judge prospective spouses. Grandma affectionately called it the “The Pitch Test” (which she herself went through, and apparently passed with flying colours).

_Merlin, where are you Malcolm?_

I’ve been stood here like a Victorian maiden staring out the window, as if I were waiting for my husband to return from war. If anything, the true battle to be fought was _here_ , and there’s only so much I can do for him, especially when he’s not bloody here.

First impressions matter and Malcolm was late, _very_ late.

“Still nothing?”

I turn around and see Fiona, who’s taken her newfound for affinity for punk to another level. Dressed head to toe in Vivienne Westwood, she is the epitome of champagne punk. “Nope, still not here,” I say.

“You sure he didn’t just run off? This place looks proper haunted,” Fiona flopped onto my bed.

I roll my eyes, “He’s been to the Manor. Surely that place looks more off-putting.”

Fiona snorted (how undignified), “You know, you could’ve chosen someone that wasn’t such a country bumpkin, you know that right?”

“Can it Fi,” I snap at her, “I don’t need this right now.” I hated that they all think Malcolm was some uneducated farmhand. Not only was he just as wealthy (if not more than _some_ members of the family, Uncle Pat, but he’s actually _brilliant_. Talent for maths, sports, management and a magick so in tune with nature that he could probably raise the dead if he tried.

Unlike Pitches, who were raised to be leaders and conquerors – an inextinguishable flame of ambition and power.

“Why do you care so much anyway? Mummy couldn’t stop you, I doubt Grandpa could. Or Auntie Sylvia for that matter,” Fiona propped herself up by the elbows, “Since when did _you_ care what they think about … anything anyway?”

Honestly, I don’t know why I so desperately want their approval. Mummy and Daddy know I’m going to propose once I graduated, they’ve made their peace with it. We just wanted to get university out of the way first, do some more growing up. Then Fiona had to let her mouth run during a family dinner. So here we all are, Easter weekend, in a bloody hunting lodge in the arse end of no where, and my future happiness open for judgment for the entire Pitch clan.

“Because…I want them to be happy for me, Fi,” I say quietly, playing with the edge of the curtains, still checking for Malcolm’s car to show up in the driveway, “One day, you’ll bring home someone and you’ll know what I mean.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” she says while reaching for a cigarette, “Might die before I find the one.”

_Teenagers_.

“Really? And what’s this little rumour I heard about you and a Nicodemus?”

“That's – ”

There’s a knock on the door, and I raise an eyebrow at Fiona, “Come in!”

“Miss Natasha, your guest is here.”

“Thank you Emily,” I follow her quickly out the door, but not before I take Fiona’s cigarette and stub it out. “It’s a disgusting habit,” and I take out my wand and cast **_Fresh as a daisy_** around the room. She can smell like an ashtray, but my bedroom will not.

By the time I make it downstairs, it seems the entire vanguard (otherwise known as my family) have heard the news and were all waiting for my infamous farmer of a boyfriend to show up. I thought they’d have better things to do like, hunting or parlour games, but apparently, Malcolm was to be the marquee event of this weekend.

_Merlin help me_.

I push pass my aunts, uncles and cousins as politely as I could. Firstly, because I miss him and I want to see him, secondly, I’m not letting any of them ambush him before he makes it through the front door.

Before long, I could see his car coming up the gravel path (his brand new Jaguar, might I add), and I feel positively _giddy_ which is absurd, but I love it. By the time his car rounds the driveway and parks, I pity my nail bed because it’s been my sole source of comfort. I smooth down my blouse and skirt and make my way towards him. It seemed he took my advice and showed up in a suit – but in a blinding turquoise.

But still with that long mop of hair (Nana won’t like it but she can do one).

“Hey,” I say, smiling like a schoolgirl (something’s don’t change, not even after Watford). I’m slightly taller than him because of my shoes (heels and gravel roads don’t mix, no matter how short they are), but what he lacked in height, he made up for in confidence.

“Hey you,” he says, smiling at him, leaning on his car.

“Did you _have_ to drive the Jag?”

“To show them I’m _frugal_ and _one of the people_ ,” he grins, “or did you want me to show up in a tractor and _really_ make a statement.”

“You know I adore that tractor,” I say lacing my fingers into his.

“And I adore you,” he says, leaning up slightly to kiss my forehead. It’s silly how something so simple makes my heart flutter, still. “So…am I meant to bow or something?”

I chuckle at that, because he very much did bow when we first met. And it was charming, but equally socially devastating because it was hilarious. “No bowing yet. That’s for the blood ritual later.” I reach up and brush his dark brown hair out of his face, tucking the few stray strands behind his ear, “Shall we get this show on the road.”

“If we must.”

“We must,” I say taking his hand, “Grandma Amira And Grandpa George on the right, start with them,” And with that I lead him the driveway to face the beast that are the Pitches.

* * *

**MALCOLM**

Tasha’s family sure are…something. I knew what I was getting into when I asked her out, but I don’t anyone prepares you for meeting _this_ family. Fiona, I’ve met plenty of times before, mostly at Watford, her parents, Nathaniel and Selina, twice at a Sunday luncheon. But the rest of them? Not until today.

It seems that Nathaniel was the only Pitch son, his two sisters, Sylvia and Amelia married and took their husband’s name. Darius and Hugh, respectively. I’m grateful for the family tree Tasha doodled on a napkin before I came, which was still tucked into my jacket pocket right now.

It’s a bit overwhelming, not just the number of people, but their _stares_.

I wonder if this is what Tasha felt when she met my family – Nelson was a complete disgrace, but she laughed with him. I can’t imagine laughing with any of her cousins, not without a lot of drink anyway. Which should be right now, at lunch, but it seemed the Pitches ate in complete silence (well, except for Fiona, because nothing could keep her quiet).

“So tell me Malcolm,” Uncle Darius, “do you like hunting?” His voice echoed in the large dining room. People stopped eating, knives and forks grounded to a halt. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me.

_So the test begins_.

I gently put down my _salad_ fork, dab my lips with the napkin and make direct eye contact, “Yes I do, but I often find the stalking more enjoyable than the actual hunt.”

“Do you hunt often then?”

“Not much time to hunt, with Eighth Year and the farms to manage,” I say, “I also find animals more useful alive than dead.”

“I _told_ you he’s a soft one,” an aunt whispered too loudly behind a wine glass.

I can hear Fiona giggle and I felt Tasha’s hand on my knee. I know she desperately wants me to play the role of the perfect boyfriend, but if we’re going to be together, married, I can’t keep up a charade forever.

I’m earning their favour on my own merit.

“Well,” Grandpa George said, shifting in his seat to look at me (no, to stare me down), I hold his gaze, “will you be joining us tomorrow morning then?”

I turn to look at Tasha, and I give her hand a soft squeeze, “Absolutely.”

* * *

I know I’m up far too early – it’d be an hour before sunrise, and even longer before everyone else wakes up. I’m up not because of nerves but simply because I need a window of opportunity. I promised Tasha I’ll quit, and I will. But today is a bit different no? I walk as quietly as I could along the carpeted corridors, and eventually out the back of the hunting lodge.

I don’t quite know how she managed to sneak up on me, but one moment I was closing the paned door as quietly as I could, and the next Fiona was standing next to me in her dressing gown.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Aren’t you as well?” I reply, “You know, smoking’s bad for you.”

“Isn’t that why you’re out here too?”

I ignore her and light the cigarette I had tucked behind my ear, letting the burn of the tobacco sit in my mouth before exhaling. I glance to my side and I could see Fiona’s struggling with her lighter, before finally giving up and just creating a flame with a snap of her fingers.

We stand there together blowing clouds of smoke into the air. The peace and quiet punctuated by our sighs as we exhale, and eventually, Fiona talks first.

“You now I don’t hate you, right?”

“I know,” I say staring into the dark fields in front of us, “But Tasha’s your sister. You’re protective.” I stub out my cigarette in the mud and try to bury it in the mud, “I am too.”

Fiona gave me the infamous Pitch eyebrow raise, but with a more bite in than Tasha’s. They were so similar, yet so different. Fiona’s brash and a rebel through and through, all sharp corners. Tasha on the other hand was softer, with a quiet firmness that I find much more powerful. “She wants us to get along.”

“I know.”

“Consider this,” Fiona holds out another cigarette, “an olive branch. For Tasha.”

I take it slowly and smirk to myself, “For Tasha.”

She gives me a nod and takes out her wand, “ ** _Fresh as a –_** ”

“Don’t,” I say quickly, interrupting her, “it’ll telegraph the hunting party to the stags. And I’m not having that hang over my head.”

“But smelling like cigarettes would help?”

“Animals can feel magick,” I say as if it was obvious (because it is obvious), “And both you and Tasha use that spell to smell like the perfume hall at Harrods.” Without letting Fiona answer, I turn and head back in to get ready for the day.

* * *

**NATASHA**

We’re covered in mud by the time we make it back to the house, but everyone’s far too happy to care, giving little attention to the dirt we are trudging all over the carpets and rugs. More importantly, everyone seemed to be warming up to Malcolm.

For all their snootiness, turns out having someone that knew how to handle animals and comfortable with getting dirty was much more suited for life in the country than some city boy (which was Auntie Prudence and Auntie Amelia’s preferred choice for their daughters).

I knew he’s not a fan of hunting, thinking the rifles a waste of time, weapons designed and made for Normals to feel powerful. I had worried he’d make some comment about Daddy and Grandpa, but he didn’t. Instead he cast some spell (“ ** _Stars, hide your fires_** ” I think?) and he concealed the sounds of the gunshots, so as to not scare off the stag.

I knew he’d impress them in his own way. I’m so relieved that I’m even going to let it slide that he so obviously had a cigarette this morning. 

However after the hunt, came the parlour games, and while he may have impressed the Pitches, he now had to impress the ones that married _into_ the family. Grandma Amira would be easy to impress, Uncle Darius seemed chuffed about the hunt, but Uncle Hughie has always been a bit of git, really.

Nonetheless, we got changed into our evening wear and filed into the drawing room, whisky for the men (and Auntie Amelie), white wine for the ladies (and Uncle Darius). I was surprised when Fiona joined Malcolm and I on the sofa, and actually having a conversation with each other, instead of their usual digs.

I’m happy, sitting here with Fiona and Malcolm ( _finally_ getting along), he’s rubbing circles into my palms, talk animatedly, passionately and for the first time this entire weekend, _comfortably_. Dutch courage went a long way – social lubricant, and Merlin knows the Pitches need help being social.

But my little happiness was rudely interrupted by Uncle Hughie insistence on playing Magick Whispers. Someone will start with a spell, and it will get passed on – whispered – and the last person will cast what they think they heard, and hilarity (allegedly) ensues. _I_ know the test isn’t in whether or not Malcolm can get the _correct_ spell, but whether or not he _has_ the magick in him to cast something that was, by design, impossible and wrong.

If there was one thing the Pitches cared more than power, it was in purity of the bloodline. The poorest and most uncouth of partners have been welcomed by virtue of being powerful mages. I know my own magick is stronger than Malcolm’s, but only because I carry with me centuries of manicured breeding.

“Natty, you start,” Uncle Hughie says, “You kids must be learning all kinds of magick these days.”

And because this _is_ a test, I turn around and whisper to Mummy, “ ** _A flower blossoms for its own joy_**.” Mummy gave me a look, and I raise an eyebrow at her. All Malcolm had to do was to pass the test and impress everyone, no one said I couldn’t _help_. Knowing _exactly_ what I was doing, she turned to her left and whispered what I said. I watch as heads slowly turn, some questioning, some put off, and Grandma Amira giving me a knowing smile before whispering to Uncle Hughie.

I hide my smile behind my hand as I watch Uncle Hughie slur his way through the spell, leaning a bit too close into Malcolm, who for the most part was doing his best to not shirk away.

“Alright,” Malcolm says, standing up, confident as always. He takes out his wand, points it at me and says, “ ** _A flower blossoms for her own joy_** _.”_ And around me, flowers burst from the cushions and pillows, vines wrapping itself around the legs of the sofa, and when I finally let out a smile, every flower blooms in unison.

I am the picture of a woman in love.

And I know sentimentality with grand displays of magick (even if the magick itself isn’t a complicate spell) would win over the family, because it reminded them of the simple fact that being in love shouldn’t come with elaborate tests and trials.

There was polite applause, lead by Fiona mostly, and Malcolm gives me a wink and I don't know if I want to kiss him or wring his neck for being _that_ guy.

“Shall we do another?” I ask, the subtext clear, giving the meadow I was sitting on now a little pat, letting Malcolm he could sit down now.

“Itching to set the house on fire?” Grandpa jokes, “I still remember when you were just wee big, and Fiona even smaller. You almost burnt down the house.”

“Oh it wasn’t that bad!” I can’t help the blush creeping up to my face, “Fiona’s turned out fine. Mostly.”

“Still can’t believe you tried to set me on fire,”

“It was either me or you,” I say, “And you were awful to deal with.”

Every one laughed, even Fiona, and it seemed, unless something catastrophic happened at dinner, Malcolm passed the Pitch Test.

All there was left to do was to ask him to marry me.

And one day, in the future, our child (children? Who knows) would bring someone, and I hope they love them enough to show them off, and I’ll do my everything to help them past, no matter how much of a disaster that chosen one may be.

* * *

**BAZ**

“I heard you invited him to the hunting lodge for Easter?” Father says.

“I did,” I reply, unsure of where this was going.

“Do you think he’s ready?” there’s a tone in voice that I can’t quite place. It almost sounded _affectionate_ , which was honestly bizarre.

Father’s come a long way, and though he still has his moments, he’s trying. The fact that he recognises Simon’s lineage and didn’t immediately object to me inviting him pointed towards good things.

“I doubt the Pitch Test is as difficult as saving the world.”

Father chuckles, “Oh to be born a Pitch. You have no idea.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, not sure if he was trying to spook me or to be supportive. “Either way, I have no doubt he’ll blunder his way through.”

“Excellent,” he says, giving my shoulder a pat, “I expect nothing less from my son’s chosen one.” And with that he walked off, chuckling to himself. 

I am thoroughly spooked.

_Did Daphne slip something in his coffee or something?_

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the Crown, and then the Balmoral Test happened, then this happened.
> 
> Malcolm and Natasha deserve some happiness before ... well, canon.
> 
> Small shoutout to [FoolofABookwyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85/profile) for the 80s hair I **tried** to draw.


End file.
